‘Get this down you.’ He put the glass on the desk.
Benavides raised his head slowly, cautious now.
‘I was attacked at my pensión,’ Guzmán said. ‘One of my friends was killed.’
‘That had nothing to do with me, Comandante. I know nothing about it.’
‘Pretty much everything seems to involve you in one way or another,’ Guzmán said. ‘Or maybe I should say you and Señorita Ibañez. So don’t insult my intelligence or I’ll beat your brains out all over this desk. What do you know about the attack on the pensión?’
Benavides shrugged. ‘Paloma and I are strategy people, Comandante. We collect data, we make suggestions. Most of our efforts go into policy making. The unpleasant stuff remains the domain of the central council. They’re the ones who authorised the attack on your pensión.’
‘I find it hard to believe that a bunch of elderly generals would spend time planning the killing of an eighteen-year-old girl.’
Benavides’ hand trembled as he raised the glass to his mouth and swallowed half the Scotch in one long gulp. ‘They don’t share information like that with me.’
‘How about Paloma Ibañez?’
‘Paloma handles strategic and tactical issues as the need arises. I can’t say which ones for certain.’
‘Of course not,’ Guzmán sneered, ‘it’s not like you work with her, is it?’
‘I merely meant that—’
Guzmán cut him short. ‘Does she socialise with any of the central council?’
‘Well, naturally Paloma appeals to them as men. One hears rumours.’
‘You’ll hear this pistol rumouring through your head if you don’t give me a straight answer. Does she sleep with any of them?’
‘If the rumours are to believed.’
‘Including General Amadeo?’
‘She likes to get her way, and she knows how to get it.’ A dull look of surprise crossed Benavides’ face. He frowned, as if trying to remember something. He put down his empty glass and stared at it. ‘There was something in that drin—’
As Benavides slumped forward on the desk, Guzmán went over to the wooden globe and got himself another brandy. Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a pair of gloves and put them on. Then he pulled the chair from under Señor Benavides and tipped him onto the floor. Benavides grunted though he did not wake.
On the desk, Guzmán saw an electric typewriter. He put a sheet of paper into the typewriter and clumsily tapped out a couple of sentences. Then he dedicated the next few minutes to clearing up the flat.
First, he took the Venetian glass tumbler he’d drunk from into the kitchen and washed and dried it carefully before returning it to the drinks cabinet. The other glass carried Benavides’ fingerprints and Guzmán handled it using a cloth from the kitchen as he placed it back on the desk. Then he wiped the bottles he’d touched free of prints. The cloth went into his pocket, for disposal later. The housework over, he went over to the sleeping man on the floor and started to unbutton his shirt.
It only took a couple of minutes to strip Benavides and stuff his clothes into a bamboo washing basket in the kitchen. In the bedroom, the wardrobe was fitted with a double shelf for Benavides’ large collection of shoes and Guzmán shoved the pair he had been wearing alongside the others.
It was an impressive wardrobe: no doubt an antique, Guzmán guessed as he closed the door. On the top was a heavy, intricate carving, sculpted from a single block of wood. Some kind of pastoral scene, the thick wood laced with delicately carved loops and whorls. A robust piece of craftsmanship, he thought, as he returned to the living room to retrieve the brown paper package.
Dressing Benavides in the red underwear required a lot more effort than undressing him. The man was a dead weight and Guzmán had to struggle to get him into the lace panties and bra. Attaching the stockings to the suspender belt provoked a stream of colourful obscenities, though in the end, the result was satisfactory. It wasn’t as though Benavides was about to be entered into the Miss World competition. Finally, Guzmán took the lipstick he’d bought and used it to turn Benavides’ mouth into something resembling the grin of a particularly deranged clown.
Guzmán dragged Benavides into the bedroom and propped him against the bed while he went back to get the clothes rope he’d bought in the SEPU department store that afternoon. One end of the rope he attached to the carving on the top of the wardrobe, wrapping the rope around several of the carved pieces to distribute the weight. When he tested it, both rope and carving took his weight without any problem.
The rest was simple. He fashioned a noose with practised familiarity before hauling the unconscious Benavides towards the wardrobe, holding him awkwardly with one arm while he worked the noose around his neck. Slowly, he released him, watching the rope tighten until it supported Benavides’ entire weight. Rather than listen to the noise of him choking to death, Guzmán went back into the living room.
The scene was just as he wanted it. When the body was found, the conclusions were already there, waiting to be drawn. One glass for Benavides’ last solitary drink. His clothes in the wash basket and his shoes put away neatly. The actions of a careful, methodical person, albeit one with a terrible guilty secret. The evidence of that secret was clear for all to see on the single sheet of paper sticking out of the typewriter roller.
I can’t go on living a lie.
Whoever found Benavides would understand at once, Guzmán knew. It was just a matter of creating a convincing impression and the red underwear would certainly do that. Within a few days of the body being found, even Benavides’ closest friends would begin to remember that they’d harboured suspicions about him.
A faint reek of shit from the bedroom signalled Benavides’ change of status to the late Señor Benavides. After locking the apartment, Guzmán went downstairs and left the building by the tradesmen’s door.
A block away, he went into a call box. The sarge’s son answered and listened carefully to the instructions Guzmán gave him. Guzmán pushed another coin into the phone as he rummaged in his pocket with his free hand for the paper Ignacio had given him and dictated the second address, thinking that Ignacio probably deserved a lot more than the amount he’d paid him. ‘Got all that?’ Guzmán said, ready to hang up.
‘I’ll do it now, boss,’ Julio said.
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PLAZA DEL CORDÓN
‘Ricci and Javier?’ A momentary silence. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
Paloma Ibañez’s hand was shaking as she put down the phone. She hurried across the room and turned out the lights, leaving the room illuminated only by the vague glow of the street lamps outside.
In four years of working for the Centinelas, Paloma had never experienced a moment like this. People got hurt, of course: she knew how those things were done and why, but it was not part of her job to witness them or to have them happen to people she knew. Orders were given, action was taken. But for her, those assassinations were abstract affairs, designed to remove people who got in the way of progress. The Centinelas’ progress, that was.
Which made what was happening now all the more troubling.
She picked up the phone again and dialled a number. As she listened to the ringing at the other end, she ran a hand through her hair in an unconscious gesture of deference to the man she was calling.
An icy voice answered. ‘Señorita Ibañez. I was expecting your call. Such a pleasure.’
Pleasantries, even fake ones, were beyond her tonight. ‘Someone killed Javier earlier this evening,’ she spluttered. ‘It’s bad enough Ricci got himself shot at that tawdry club of his but Javier? He was—’
‘Shut up.’ The voice was even icier than before. ‘I know what happened. You need to come over, we’ll keep you safe. You know where to come?’
‘Yes.’ Paloma nodded, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking as much as her hands.
‘Then get your car keys and leave the flat at once. You’ll be safe here.’
�
�I understand, but—’ She stopped talking. The line had gone dead.
Paloma went over to an ornate desk by the window. As she rummaged for her keys, she felt the panic rising. If they can kill Ricci and Javier, they can kill any of us. And another, more bitter thought: They said we were protected. Her fingers closed around the keys and she snatched them up and made for the door, her heels tapping on the parquet tiles.
As the door closed behind her, she wished she’d picked up the small pistol Javier had given her last Christmas. But then, why would she carry a gun around with her? Hadn’t her employers told her that their protection was more than enough to keep her safe? Unfortunately, recent events made her question that.
She crossed the small cobbled square, wincing at the brittle echoes of her footsteps as she listened for the sound of someone lurking in the shadows. She heard nothing. That encouraged her. Once she was in the car, she would be safe.
Her hands were shaking badly, and she struggled for a few moments to get the key into the lock. Finally, the door opened, the sound of the catch magnified by the still night air. Once inside, she gave a sigh of relief as she locked the doors and pushed the key into the ignition. Calmer now, she smoothed her skirt and turned on the interior light to make sure her hair was tidy. Where she was going, she could hardly arrive looking as though she’d just got out of bed. Satisfied with her appearance, she switched off the light and reached for the ignition.
A hand clamped over her nose and mouth, pulling her head back against the headrest. She struggled, clutching at the hand, fighting for breath. Then something cold pressed against her neck and she felt the sharp edge of a blade pressed against her carotid artery. The hand relaxed a little and she gulped in air, tasting the strong bitter tobacco on the man’s skin. Other smells too, none of them pleasant. And then, as her attacker raised himself from behind the driver’s seat, she saw a face from hell, reflected in the mirror. Her scream was cut short as his hand pressed over her mouth again, harder this time. A deep, rasping voice. Stinking breath.
‘Keep quiet or I’ll cut your throat.’
Paloma obeyed, offering no resistance as he bound her with coarse rope. She was less compliant as he took a piece of cloth from his pocket and gagged her, though her resistance was short-lived. Lying across the front seats, she heard him get out, the sound of his footsteps as he went to the rear of the car and opened the boot. Then the footsteps returned and she moaned as he dragged her from the car. She realised what was about to happen and started to struggle, though it was too late to stop him now as he bundled her into the boot and slammed the lid. Then the driver’s door closed and a few moments later the engine throbbed into life as the car bounced forward over the cobbles.
CHAPTER 22
MADRID, OCTOBER 2010, CALLE VELÁZQUEZ
The elegant shops bustled with customers as Galíndez made her way up the street, checking out the goods in the windows of the most expensive stores, taking the opportunity to cast an eye over the passers-by around her. No one seemed to be following her, though she wasn’t stupid enough to think that meant no one was.
Across the road, the reinforced glass windows of Judge Delgado’s office glinted dull in the autumn light. She took a last look to see if she was being trailed and then hurried across the road. Reaching for the buzzer, she caught a glimpse of her image reflected in the bulletproof glass. Pale face, dark circles under her eyes. Definitely not at her best. Still, a couple of painkillers would perk her up later.
The receptionist answered through the speakerphone. When she heard Galíndez’s name, she operated the door mechanism, opening it just long enough to for Galíndez to enter before it closed and locked behind her. The receptionist opened the door to the side and Galíndez stepped out into the office.
‘Judge Delgado is upstairs in the conference room.’
She followed the woman down the hall, pausing while she tapped a security code into a pad at the side of a thick metal door. Once through the door, the receptionist led her up a wide flight of stairs and ushered her into the conference room.
Judge Delgado was standing by the window, looking out at the bustle of Calle Velázquez through floor-length muslin curtains, his bouffant of grey hair backlit by the light from the window. Dismissing the receptionist, he came forward and took Galíndez’s outstretched hand in such a formal manner she thought he was about to kiss it. Instead, he gave her a light handshake.
‘A pleasure, Dr Galíndez,’ Delgado said, holding a chair for her. Once she was seated, he strolled languidly round the table and sat facing her. ‘Can I offer you a drink? Sherry, perhaps, or coffee?’
Galíndez asked for water.
Delgado went over to a drinks cabinet by the wall and came back with a large glass of mineral water. ‘You said on the telephone that you have evidence on the Centinelas? I’m surprised.’
Galíndez frowned. ‘Why? It’s my job.’
‘I wasn’t doubting your competence,’ Delgado said. ‘I meant I’m surprised you’re alive. Most people who’ve tried to expose them have died in somewhat unusual circumstances.’
‘So I believe,’ Galíndez said. ‘In fact, I infiltrated a meeting of the Centinelas only two days ago. During the meeting, they identified an undercover police officer. She was beaten to death in order to intimidate their new members.’
Bernardino looked up sharply. ‘You should be careful, if they were able to identify her, it would be reckless to think they couldn’t do the same thing to you.’
Galíndez swallowed, hard. She’d been thinking the same thing herself.
‘There was another policeman there,’ she said. ‘He’s been working undercover in the Centinelas for four years.’
‘Sancho Hernández?’ Delgado said, leafing through his papers. ‘He’s the only man to successfully infiltrate them so far.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘How do you know about him, Judge?’
Delgado shrugged. ‘Naturally, I keep abreast of what’s happening in law enforcement agencies. You can never have too much information.’
‘Unfortunately, Sancho was killed during a police raid on the Pensión Paraíso yesterday,’ she said. ‘The policía nacional claim there were terrorists in the pensión, though that was a lie. It’s clear to me that the Centinelas have infiltrated the police force.’
Delgado gave her a curious look. ‘You seem to know a great deal about them. Why haven’t you reported your findings to your superiors?’
‘Because I don’t know who I can trust any more.’ The ice cubes tinkled in her glass as she took another sip of water.
‘A very sensible attitude.’ Delgado nodded. ‘You’ve already seen the precautions I take to protect myself and it’s no fun, I can tell you, living behind bulletproof glass. But that’s enough about my problems, what do you want from me?’
Galíndez reached into her top pocket and took out the memory stick. ‘This is the information Sancho Hernández collected during the four years he worked for the Centinelas. It has details of their membership and their finances as well as information about their connections with organised crime, both in Spain and abroad.’
‘Good Lord,’ Delgado said. Carefully, he ran a hand over his hair. ‘That material has the potential to destroy them, if used properly.’
‘Exactly, and I was hoping you might be the one to do it.’
‘I’d have to decide how it should be done,’ Delgado said. ‘Do you have any ideas?’
‘I thought if the contents of the USB stick were sent to media and law enforcement agencies, it would be impossible to stop that information from becoming public. The authorities would have to act.’
‘An excellent idea,’ Delgado said. ‘Do you have a time frame in mind?’
‘The sooner the better. Midday tomorrow, maybe?’ She held out the memory stick.
Delgado took the stick from her and placed it on the blotter in front of him. ‘You don’t know what this means to me, Dr Galíndez.’
Galíndez got up from her c
hair, ready to go. ‘I have a feeling that I do, Judge.’
MADRID 2010, CALLE LARGASCA
‘The judge agreed to release it tomorrow?’ Isabel said. ‘That’s brilliant news.’
She looked happier than she had for a long time, Galíndez thought. ‘Midday tomorrow. He said it could go global.’
‘We should celebrate.’
‘Let’s see what happens tomorrow first,’ Galíndez said, starting to unfasten her boots. ‘We can celebrate once we’re sure the plan’s worked.’
Isabel went into the kitchen and came back with two bottles of Alhambra. ‘Here, let’s have a pre-celebration drink.’
Galíndez took a long drink from the bottle and sighed. ‘You can’t beat a cold beer.’
Isabel joined her on the sofa. ‘You really think all this will be over soon?’
‘It depends on Delgado,’ Galíndez said. ‘I stopped off in the library after I visited his office and read up on the malpractice suit he was involved in. He was accused of corruption and money laundering.’
‘It wasn’t proved, though, Ana.’
‘It wasn’t disproved either,’ Galíndez said. ‘The charges were dropped because key witnesses declined to give evidence.’
Isabel frowned. ‘You surely don’t suspect he’s one of them?’
‘I trust you and I trust me. Everyone else is a suspect. And before you say anything, that’s not paranoia. I haven’t had a painkiller for days.’
Isabel leaned closer, and smoothed Galíndez’s hair with her hand. ‘That’s my girl.’ Her face grew serious again. ‘But if you don’t trust Delgado, how are you going to find out if he’s on their side or not?’
‘We won’t, not until tomorrow, anyway.’
‘OK.’ Isabel got up. ‘Then we should get an early night.’
‘I’m not tired yet.’ Galíndez looked up and saw Isabel’s expression. ‘I’ll be right there.’
*
‘Have you finished your shower?’ Isabel called. ‘It’s almost midday, I’m putting the TV on. Let’s see if Judge Delgado’s on the news.’
Towelling her hair, Galíndez joined her in front of the TV. The 24-hour news channel was recycling footage of a Chinese earthquake it had used the previous day.
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